


Fathomless

by DoctorSyntax



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Coda, Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, Episode: s04e22 Elegy, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6661915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her balance betrays her and she topples forward, knees hitting the edge of his chair. With a fluid motion Skinner hoists her upward and forward, onto his lap, where she leans in until their foreheads touch but somehow manages not to meet his eyes.</p><p>"I thought we agreed not to do this at work," he says, voice hushed even though they are probably the only ones left on this floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fathomless

A quiet, almost hesitant knock pulls Skinner's attention away from his computer and over toward the door of his office. He barely has a moment to wonder who it could possibly be at this hour before Scully slips in the door and shuts it behind her. She's not quite the last person he'd expect, but it's a near thing.

"Agent Scully, what—?" He doesn't finish, unsure of what he wants to ask. _What are you doing here at 9pm? What bad news have you come to tell me?_ Honestly, there's a part of him that does not know how much more he can take, coming from her. Countless nightmare scenarios race through his head, though they all end the same way.

For a long minute she just looks at him, teeth worrying her lower lip. Then, decisively, she reaches behind her to engage the lock on the doorhandle. She doesn't take her eyes off his face, and the intent in them is easily read.

Oh.

"Dana," he begins again, consciously shifting gears. "You look upset." Upset is an understatement. She looks discomposed in a way he's never seen before—not when her sister died, not when she was delivering news of her tumor. Any other person, he'd make a joke asking if she's seen a ghost. But Scully… he has a sneaking suspicion she's just allowing him to finally peek beneath her shell of professionalism. He'd be glad if he wasn't so acutely aware of why it was happening now.

"I called your house," she replies, sidestepping the question even as she stays in her place by the door. "When you didn't pick up, I assumed you were here."

He loosens his tie, leaning a little further back in his chair. "You assumed correctly. My meeting with the section chiefs ran longer than usual. But that doesn't explain why you're here—I thought you and Agent Mulder were away on a case."

"We've been in town the whole time, sir. And the case is over," she adds, as an afterthought.

He raises his eyebrow expectantly. "And?" God, why won't she come to him? Her body is tense, like she's fighting with herself. Finally the tension snaps, and she crosses the room in quick strides, shedding her overcoat as she goes.

She's unbuttoning her blazer as she reaches him. "And I want to forget all about it for a little while."

If he was a better man, he'd ask what exactly she wants to forget, but he knows if he pushes she'll leave this room. Leave him. It has to be enough that she will come to him with this, that there is something in this world that he can to do help her, even if she'll never admit her deeper motives.

He may not be a great man, but he's not a stupid one either. Everyone is afraid to die. Everyone wants to feel all they can on their way out. Skinner isn't sure, but he thinks Mulder may have shared with her the basics of his near-death experience in Vietnam. It is the only explanation he can think of that the normally practical, reserved Scully would ever come to him—her boss—with such a wild proposition. She trusts him to understand and not to ask questions that will force answers she isn't ready to face.

Not for the first time, Skinner wonders how she knew he'd allow her to use him like this.

But it's no use contemplating that now: the first few buttons on her blouse are open, so he reaches forward enough to pull the tails of her shirt free from her skirt, skimming his fingers along the newly-exposed skin. It is reassuringly warm with life despite her pallor. He is concerned when Scully hisses lightly and the muscles in her right side tense, before he recalls her recent tattoo. Instead of backing off, he tightens his grip, pulling her toward him.

Her balance betrays her and she topples forward, knees hitting the edge of his chair. With a fluid motion Skinner hoists her upward and forward, onto his lap, where she leans in until their foreheads touch but somehow manages not to meet his eyes.

"I thought we agreed not to do this at work," he says, voice hushed even though they are probably the only ones left on this floor. There is a small, almost unwelcome part of him that revels in the notion of being caught—if someone, even just one person, could see them together, it would give him the excuse he needs to lie to himself about why she's here. After all, anyone walking in on a sight like this would surely assume they are together. That her feelings for him are equal in intensity to his, for her.

It is perhaps why he makes only this token protest.

She does not say please, but her eyes do. They are begging him. If she was anyone else in the world he'd make her say the words before giving in, but he does not have the strength in him to deny her anything.

As if she is in a trance, she reaches up to pull his glasses off, and he allows it to happen because he knows that is what she wants. He is painfully aware that he is only a warm body, something to put her back up against. A pillar, a tool. It is all he knows how to be anymore, and it is a problem of his own making. Oblivious to his turmoil, or perhaps not caring, her body half-twists so she can place his glasses on the desk. By the time his eyes have refocused, she has turned back and is crowding further into his space.

He's not sure if she kisses him because she is trying to convince him or because she already knows he's convinced. Her lush mouth is something he can easily loose himself in, and the way her body molds against his, like she can't bear an inch of space between them, sends a thrill through his entire being. He brings his hands up to thread through the fine silk of her hair, tightening just enough to make her moan into his mouth.

She is alive in his arms but the despondence in her kisses can't be ignored. Desperate to clear her mind, he takes a chance, slides one hand down to cup her supple ass. With his arms wrapped so tightly around her it is easy to tell himself that they are alone in the world, and the silence of the room corroborates his delusion. Every small noise she makes is magnified in the empty space.

He is so focused on the feel of her that he does not notice her petite hands, fumbling at his waist, until his belt buckle is undone and she's popping open the button on his fly. Her hands are shaking so much that he can feel a corresponding ache in his heart to know that she will trust him with this, but never with the reason for it. Gently his hands grips her wrists, so small compared to his, and pushes her away. "Do something about your skirt," he instructs, while he takes care of his belt, sliding it through the loops of his pants and discarding on the floor beside the desk.

She slides backward off the chair, sticking the landing in her heels. He's halfway through removing his tie when he realizes she means to stay there, her come-hither lean against his desk reminding him of a thousand fantasies he'll never speak aloud. Her skirt lies somewhere to the left of her on the floor; her shirt is unbuttoned and falling off her shoulders; she hasn't taken off her shoes. The flush along her cheekbones complements her kiss-swollen lips, the wild muss of hair he can't even remember running his fingers through.

It is obscene. She is no longer Agent Scully, she is a siren with her hands braced against the rock of his desk, and the only part left for him to play is that of the sailor, helpless to steer away from his own death.

Without conscious thought, he stands and crowds her against the desk, sliding one hand up over the silk of her thigh-high nylons, the rough lace at the top, the satin of her outer thigh. In her leaned-back position she is so much smaller than him; he looms above her, around her. It is impossible to ignore the ridge of her ribs beneath her shirt or the way her stomach is curving convex. He should see this evidence of her illness and find her frail, but she would never allow it. Still, the illusion of the power he could have over her surges through his veins, spurring him onward.

His index and middle fingers on either hand hook into the elastic waistband of her panties and he slides them down her pale legs as he sinks to the floor. To his knees. She watches him with a silent intensity, eyes dark and rough like stormy waves.

At the first touch of his thumb, running along the seam of her outer labia she gasps slightly, though he knows she was expecting it. She tilts her hips and his thumb slips into her slick wetness. The scent of her arousal compels him forward, burying his face in the apex of her legs. She holds herself open to him with one hand, but it's not enough. He needs to be closer. To possess her.

Without pausing he shifts his right shoulder beneath her thigh and up, then repeats on the other side so her legs are resting on his shoulders. He regrets now the decision to leave his shirt on—he can't feel the soft skin of her thighs brushing over his shoulders.

He adulates her with his tongue and mouth, strong and steady, never changing his pace although she grows impatient, hitching her hips against his face as though she cannot help herself. The edge of the desk must be digging into her soft flesh but she appears not to notice or care, judging by the white-knuckle grip she's holding on with. 

There is a part of him that thrills to hear her slowly becoming more vocal, the same part that deep down wants them to be caught. It is his pride speaking, that primal part of him that wants to know about this beautiful woman sharing herself with him. He is loath to stop those wordless gasps and moans, but they echo in the still of the evening. She practically keens when he tears his face away and growls, "Don't make me gag you with my tie."

He registers the unmistakable spark of lust in her sea-blue eyes but does not get a chance to deliver on his threat—before he can even think about getting up she grabs the back of his head, forcing his attention back to her sex, wordlessly directing him to get on with it.

She doesn't have to tell him twice. He doubles down, focusing mostly on her clit and slipping two fingers inside her. She's so small he almost started with one, but decided against it because she seems in the mood to be pushed, to be reminded that she's alive. Two barely fits, and he rubs and beckons until she lets out a choked-off moan and comes in crashing waves around his fingers. He looks up to watch her face but doesn't change his tune, coaxing more and more spasms out of her until one leg slips from his shoulder and she loosens her deathgrip on the desk, swatting at his hand.

With great reluctance rocks backward, resting his ass on his heels. Waiting to see if she will leave him, or if she needs more from him. She grips his forearm and tugs, and he goes with the flow, rising carefully to his feet. Before he can open his mouth to ask she catches his hands in hers, guiding one hand down to palm himself through his trousers; she sucks the fingers of his other hand, the ones still slick with her juices, into her mouth.

She is killing him. He will drown, as surely as he breathes.

His self-control is wearing tenuously thin as he breaks her grip, fumbling with the zipper on his suit trousers while she pops open the buttons of his shirt. As soon as it is open she slips a hand beneath his undershirt, scratching lightly as if to urge him on. Heat radiates from her fingers, spreading through his core. He shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock and she shifts, legs spreading wider. She whimpers her desperation when he presses the head of his cock against her cunt, swollen with blood, and hitches toward it.

She is slick, so wet, as he slides inside her until he can't anymore; until she is almost breathless with the fullness he has given her. This is the third time they've done this and each time it's a sensation anew. He doesn't think he will ever get tired of the way she feels around him, writhing wantonly as she adjusts to his cock filling her.

As if on instinct, her legs come up, ankles crossing behind him, and she uses the leverage to press him forward. It is only then he feels her perfect manicure digging into his latissimus dorsi, hard enough that he may have marks to remember this by tomorrow. He pulls back far enough to look her in her fathomless eyes as he pounds into her, over and over, letting an age-old rhythm overpower rational thought.

Her gaze transfixes him, beckoning him forward again and he can't resist the self-destructive urge to lean his forehead against hers as he fucks her, seeking an intimacy she has not promised.

The sound of her voice, of the needy, involuntary whimpers she can't control, lure him that last half-inch and he seals their mouths together. Lets her swallow his groan as he comes, breaking against her like so many waves on the shore. For the briefest of moments he feels fulfilled, utterly at peace after a hard day’s work, but the moment quickly sours when he sees her expressive face begin to close down. Dammit, he’s still inside her and somehow her walls are coming up around her with him on the wrong side.

"Thank you," she whispers, but those pale blue eyes are lost to him again. He knows he will founder in the depths of this ridiculous, hopeless love, but there is nothing else he can do. So he does the only thing he can, which is graciously withdraw and turn away enough to give her some privacy as they each re-dress. It seems ridiculous that after all that she’d be shy about something like getting dressed, but he knows from their previous encounters it’s like a switch gets flipped. If he were a psychologist he’d probably have a field day decipering Scully, but then again, if he were, maybe she wouldn’t let him see her like this.

The soft rustling of her clothes stops, and then she squeezes his hand. By the time he turns she’s already walking away, picking up the coat discarded by the door, leaving him behind. Alone, again.

In the echo of the door shutting he can hear her words from last month. _I can't go to Mulder with this_ , she'd said. _It would destroy him_.

She'd asked him, instead, perhaps sensing he was already damned.


End file.
